


The Time Traveler's Family

by AbbyDebeaupre



Category: Outlander & Related Fandoms, Outlander (TV), Outlander Series - Diana Gabaldon
Genre: Canon-Divergent and Modern AU, Multi-Part, Slow Burn, time traveler's wife au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-14
Updated: 2019-05-31
Packaged: 2019-08-23 09:00:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,782
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16615937
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AbbyDebeaupre/pseuds/AbbyDebeaupre
Summary: Strange the things you remember, the people, the places, the moments in time burned into the heart forever. Jamie Fraser has lived a life different from other men, for most men don’t have wives and children with temporal displacement disorder.





	1. Lallybroch 1729

**Author's Note:**

> This is a new series based on the time traveling premise in Audrey Niffenegger’s book The Time Traveler’s Wife. Jamie is the one fixed in time and Claire is the spouse that is unexpectedly popping in and out of his life. Together with the other wonderful writers at OOT @whiskynottea, @wunderlichkind, @theministerskat, @futurelounging and @muykonos-- we’ll be expanding the story with various Outlander characters-- Bree, Roger, Jem, Mandy, Geillis, Germain and Master Raymond-- to name just a few.

 

**Jamie is 8, Claire is 27 and 27**

 

The first time it happens after Craigh Na Dun, Claire is terrified. A bone deep fear she hasn’t felt since she was five years old-- not since the very start of her temporal dissonance disorder. Since becoming a nurse, she has thought of her  _ condition  _ in clinical terms-- it makes her feel less of an oddity-- but no better prepared now than she was 22 years ago. 

 

_ Her uncle Lamb had unceremoniously dropped her off at the boarding school he’d selected, handed her suitcase to the Matron, a starchy woman with an imposing bosom and shoes so well polished Claire could see the lights reflected in the tops of the toes. Then he’d patted her back and driven away. She’d followed the Matron to the long ward of beds that would be her new home. Claire didn’t want to live in this place with its screaming girls and unsmiling faces. She wanted her Daddy to rock her to sleep in the special chair by the fire, to feel her Mummy brush a kiss on her forehead and say “Night, night bug!” But they were gone and in that moment, her only thought was her own wish to be gone, too.  _

_ Claire’s next coherent thought was that it had all been a dream, a terrible awful dream. For here she was back in her bed, snug as a bug in a rug. She sighed deeply, only vaguely noticing that she was dressed in the same outfit she had been wearing in her nightmare about the boarding school. But Claire was too tired to slip on her nightie. As she rolled over she saw her own head on the pillow right next to her. She smiled thinking this was still part of her strange dream, closed her eyes and fell asleep again.  _

_ She was startled awake when the door of her room sprung open. She rolled out of the bed onto the thin strip of floor between the window and the bed frame. Claire looked back at the bed and saw that she hadn’t imagined it, there really was another Claire. She heard her Grandmere crying and noted the shocked expression on bed-Claire’s face, all of it felt far too familiar. Claire started screaming as if she could forestall her grandmother’s words. Yet, she knew them by heart.  _

_ “There’s been an accident, Julia and Henry are dead.”  _

_ The next thing she knew, Claire was back in the long ward, prostrate on the floor and unable to stop crying. She threw up all over Matron’s shiny shoes but even that didn’t end her hysteria. It only ended when Lamb came to get her and promised she can come stay with him.  _

 

Over the years, Claire has adapted to her rare condition. In fact, when she fell through the stones at Craigh Na Dun, she believed that it was just another time jump into her past. 

 

Well, it certainly was that. Except this time, she didn’t just go back to  _ her  _ past, but  _ The Past.  _ A whole new century, as a matter of fact. But Claire was used to living in the impossible. The answers would come, as they always did, in time. 

 

She’d spent two days riding now, in the company of these highlanders, and mile after mile, she kept waiting to snap back into her own time, certain at any moment she would awaken on the floor of Mrs Baird’s B & B, feeling nauseous, hungry and trying frantically to think up an excuse that Frank might accept.

 

Frank. Her heart squeezed when she thought of him and how frantic he would be. They’d married so quickly and spent so little time together during their marriage thus far, that it had never come up. She’d jumped a couple of times when with him, that was true, but in both cases she’d been missing from her own time only a few minutes. It had been easy to manage a plausible excuse on her return-- a bathroom visit, a forgotten item that had to be attended to in another room.

 

From previous jumps, Claire learned that time didn’t always move in a linear pattern in her present and past. Sometimes she’d discover that no matter how long she’d been in her past, upon her return to the present only five or ten minutes had elapsed. Other times, she’d come home to find the mail piled up for days. 

 

Claire usually jumped to a familiar place-- her house, school, an archeological dig she’d been on with Uncle Lamb a few years ago.  On very rare occasions, Claire might find herself hundreds of miles away from anything recognizable. Up until the stones, those jumps were the scariest ones. For she knew no one, sometimes didn’t speak the language, had to be quick on her feet. She had three choices: blend in, flee or hide.  

 

There was no rhyme or reason to when, where or for how long she’d need to endure until she could make her way back to her own life in the present. She’d never jumped so far in the past, though and, in any case, Claire had no way to judge whether time was moving the same in Frank’s world. She had always known that at some point she’d jump and be gone for long enough that there would be a reckoning. Claire was quite certain that this time, her absence had not gone unnoticed. 

 

Claire tries in vain to remember where she’s been and what she has just been doing before coming to this meadow. Ah, she remembers. She’d just finished tending to Jamie MacTavish’s shoulder. She’d been sitting in his lap and crying about her husband who was, most certainly, not alive. The feel of Jamie’s hands coming around her body, stroking her back, soft Gaelic words whispered in her ear. The smell of wet wool fading from his rapidly drying kilt and her burning cheeks as their eyes met in the firelight. The smirk on his lips as she’d leapt to her feet at the realization of a growing hardness underneath her. He told her to get some rest and closed the heavy door behind him. She’d seen the cot in the corner, thinking to take Jamie’s advice when the dizziness pulled at her.  _ Thank God!  _ She’d thought as the candles of Mrs. Fitz’s spare room faded from her vision, she would be home, back to Frank and the 20th Century in no time. 

 

But she’d come to in this meadow instead, lying on all fours, retching in the dirt. She is wearing her torn, mud-splattered white dress, she can see, looking down her body. Her sturdy walking shoes that mark her, more than the dress, as an outsider...a  _ sassenach _ . 

 

She always arrives when she jumps wearing what she had on the second before she goes. That gives her trouble occasionally. Like when she was wearing trousers, a new fashion for women in the UK borne of necessity in the war for certain tasks, and jumped back to her own childhood where even little girls still wore petticoats under skirts, or worse, when she is taking a bath and makes a jump arriving in her birthday suit. That only happened once, though. 

 

Yet, despite the clothing she instinctively knows she isn’t in Inverness. That her choice of dress will become problematic shortly. For it is too quiet in this meadow, and the air smells crisp and clean in a way it never does in her time. Claire needs water and food and something appropriate to cover herself in. 

 

“Are ye well, mistress?”

 

Claire’s head snaps to her left and she sees a young boy, bright red hair and cat-like blue eyes. The eyes are familiar. 

 

“No, no I’m not.” She manages, trying her best to place the face. 

 

“Do ye need help, shall I call for my Da?” His face is full of freckles and concern. 

 

“Uhmm, perhaps not just yet,” she says with more strength. 

 

“Yer English!” It sounds like an accusation. 

 

“I am,” she admits, smiling at his shocked expression. 

 

“How come ye to be here, if I might ask?” 

 

“Jamie! Jamie, lad did ye get the milk?” 

 

Claire hears a voice ringing with the authority of a mother, but it’s far too high pitched in register to actually belong to one. She looks at the boy once more and places him immediately. 

 

“Are you Jamie MacTavish?” Claire asks, happy to know at least this much. 

 

“Nay, mistress, I’ve not heard of any by that name. I am Jamie Fraser, well, James Alexander Malcolm MacKenzie Fraser, to be precise. At your service.” The boy executes a very impressive formal bow. Claire stares at him once more. Those eyes she’d know anywhere, having spent the better part of the last two days glued to the man on horseback and staring back over her shoulder at him as they talked for hours and hours to pass the time on the ride. 

 

“Jamie, ye wee gomerel!” The voice again. 

 

“Coming Janet!” he shouts back, then gives the woman a sad smile. “My sister,” he tells her. “Ever since Mam died she’s been bossing me sunup to sundown.” There is something in his tone, a catch that makes her realize his grief is still fresh. 

 

“I am sorry for your loss,” Claire tells him. “My mother died when I was just a bit younger than you.” 

 

Jamie doesn’t know what to say to that and his ears start to go pink. 

 

“Do ye hide in the barn, lass, I’ll find you a blanket and you’ll be hungry?” He guesses and at that, her stomach growls which makes him laugh. 

 

Claire is now positive that James of the many names Fraser is indeed  _ her  _ Jamie MacTavish, for he has the exact same glint of humor in those cat eyes, the same ready grin and charm. Jamie waits until Claire is kneeling upright before he turns to go. He makes it five feet before he spins back around on his heels and faces her again. 

 

“Oh, but mistress, here I’ve gone and introduced myself to ye but yer still a stranger to me. I dinna even ken yer name.” 

 

“Jamie!” His sister’s voice is much closer now.

 

“Hurry, Jamie!” Claire implores, hoping not to get caught for she hasn’t even been in this century long enough to know what year it is, let alone had time to concoct a plausible excuse for her being there. 

 

“Yer name!” he insists, with what she will only later come to recognize as Fraser stubbornness. 

 

“You can call me Sassenach,” she tells him, “I’ll fill you in when you come back to the barn with food and a blanket.” She sighs in relief when that satisfies him enough to run back and cut his sister off before she can spot the woman hiding in the high grass behind the barn. Too late, Claire realizes she should have asked Jamie what year it was. Claire turns to head to the barn, not more than twenty feet away, when she feels light-headed. She doesn’t fight it, hoping that she’ll wake in Inverness in 1945. 

 

Claire is jolted back to consciousness by the unmistakable voice of Mrs. Fitz. 

 

“Up, up! The MacKenzie will be wanting a word wi’ ye. There is no time to waste!” 

 

She recoils as Mrs. Fitz flings the bed coverings aside, flooding the room with daylight. Claire groans and falls back against the pillows as realization dawns. She is back at Leoch and lost in time. 

  
  
  



	2. Paris Redux

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Claire is 28 and 48. Set during Voyager/DIA

Claire came to, her mind sifting through the fog. She could feel boots that were pinching her toes, the heavy covering of a thick skirt on her legs. She experimentally rubbed one knee against the other, noting the absence of the telltale slide of nylon-on-nylon. Taking a deep breath, she felt the push of her stays against her ribs and that at least confirmed she was somewhere in an earlier time.

 

The melodious peel of church bells vibrated through her chest and with a sudden snap, Claire realized where she was: L’Hôpital des Anges. She mentally chidded herself. She hadn’t gone anywhere, she’d only fainted!

 

It shouldn’t have been hot enough to cause dehydration, but she _had_  walked a good portion of Paris this morning and hadn’t thought to bring any water. On top of that, she’d been far too nervous to eat breakfast this morning.

 

She hadn’t lied to Jamie... _exactly_... she just hadn’t told him that she was also planning on coming here. Provisioning the ship for their journey required them to head out separately in search of supplies and arranging for their safe delivery to the wharf. They were both aware that each day they delayed lessened their chances of catching up to the scoundrels who’d kidnapped Young Ian.

 

One look at his stressed face when they’d arisen had decided the issue. Claire could not, simply _could not_ utter the name of their daughter knowing how frantic Jamie was to find his nephew. Faith had been gone twenty and more years, but they had the hope of saving Ian. Jamie needed the freedom to direct  his energies on that, not dwell on things long since lost.

 

Claire’s glass face might have given her away, or perhaps that excellent nose of his might have sniffed out the flowers --she still couldn't believe her luck in finding any this late in the year-- that she’d buried under the linen lining of her market basket, but he’d been too preoccupied with organizing his own day to pay too much attention to hers.

 

Thinking of the flowers, Claire sat up and cast her eyes around for her basket, not finding it, she slowly rose and walked a few paces in a circle. Something in her field of vision was off, her eyes sensing the change before she had time to really process it.  Was her mind playing tricks on her? Faith’s stone no longer lay at her feet. A strong gust of wind whipped a loose strand of hair across her face and she realized how warm it was, whenever she was, it definitely wasn’t November.

 

A sharp jolt of panic sent her stomach plummeting. She willed her breathing to steady, counting the _in-and-out_ rhythm. As she did so, she calmed herself by concentrating on the noises around her. The modern world sounded completely different than the time before.

 

Claire was reassured by the cadence of carriage wheels on the stone street just the other side of the high enclosure surrounding the cemetery, the clomp of horse hooves, dog barks and goat bleats. At last she was able to think logically. Claire forced herself to acknowledge the truth. Faith's grave was missing because their daughter either hadn't come to be or, more likely, hadn't…wasn't… yet gone. _Jesus H. Roosevelt Christ!_

 

When Jamie suggested coming to Paris in all due haste and seeking help from Jared, Claire had readily agreed, feeling the same sense of urgency to get here as soon as possible.  If anyone had the information they needed and the connections to secure a ship to give chase, it would be Jamie's cousin. Claire hadn't even stopped to consider the implications of being back on French soil.

 

 _Oh God_! Claire was sure she didn't have the strength to relive those long ago days and nights full of intrigue, heartbreak and betrayal. It had taken months, if not years, for she and Jamie to both put the past behind them. And they had. They rarely spoke of her, then. And even now, only in the briefest of mentions.

 

“ _Red hair like her sister? Like Faith_?” Jamie had asked upon seeing Bree’s baby pictures.

 

Overcome at hearing _that_ name spoken out loud by _this_ man, Claire could only nod, watching as he turned each photo over in his hands, skimming a shaky finger over each line and curve of their daughter’s changing face. When the first one in color leapt from the bundle, he made a low moan in the back of his throat. The one that he used when his feelings —of love, of laughter, of happiness—had robbed him of the power of speech.

 

Claire had waited more than 7,000 days to hear that sound again and her whole body numbed with the impact. She hadn’t noticed in the busy buzzing of school and work and keeping house, but the truth was it had been years since she felt such a connection to another person. She and Frank never found it again after she returned, that unity of person, but she had it for a brief fleeting time when Brianna was very young, nursing at her breast as they rocked together in the hushed serenity of a 3 am feeding. That sacred fusion of babe and parent that bonds mother to child in those early days. It was not the same, of course, what she felt for him and what she felt for their daughter, but the way such a deep connection dissolved the individual boundary of self, it was something like it.  

 

Intimacy. A simple word of staggering complexity. Yet the knowledge of him, of herself, of them filled her senses. The solid edge of his rigid thigh pressed against hers, the sharp unfamiliar scent of him, the savory flavor of his tongue lingering on her lips, the dance of firelight from the hearth against the faded red of his hair and the rush of her heart as it glued itself back together again.

 

Claire held still, spellbound, as an expression of reverence played across his features.  She gently touched his hand and his palm went slack transferring the precious images of Bree into hers and fixing her with a burning look of urgency. He was incapable of doing much else. He kept his head cast downward as Claire told her story after story, drinking in the variety of Brianna’s expressions as she boldly stared out at the world with her father’s eyes...the same shape exactly as those of her sister.

 

Even now, weeks after, Claire had yet to speak of it, to tell Jamie how it felt sitting beside him that day...the rightness of feeling them and their daughters together even if only for one moment. “ _Oh that is quite enough of that, Beauchamp!_ ” she reminded herself. Whether she was in the Paris of 1766 or 1744 made no difference. She knew very well there was nothing she could do to change what happened and torturing herself in the meantime only made it a thousand times worse. Faith would always be a wishful dream, something too precious to become real.

 

Claire swallowed hard, took a couple of deep breaths and reminded herself that the most important thing she needed to do now was get back to Jamie in his own time.  With that goal uppermost in her mind, she was able to leave the cemetery and make her way as unobtrusively as possible through the twisting, turning corridors of L’Hôpital which she navigated by muscle memory.

 

She had learned over many years of such unexpected travel that one of the most important ways to fit in, even if you landed in the wrong century,  was walking confidently and boldly. The destination wasn’t important-- as long as you looked like you belonged, you did.

 

Claire reached the great hall, sighing when she didn’t see any sign of Mother Hildegard or Sister Agnes. The front entrance beckoned, the sun was shining on the threshold. But just as she neared, Bouton’s happy yip of greeting stopped her cold and she hesitated, despite knowing better. The soft pitter patter of little nails clicking against the stone approached in double time. Her heart gave a little squeeze and she knew it was _her_ Bouton. That fuzzy, furry face she would know anywhere. She thought about trying to ignore him, but knew from experience that being denied would only result in more insistent barking.

 

She dropped to her haunches at once and waited for him to roll, then enthusiastically rubbed his belly. The dog abruptly jumped back to all fours a moment before her own ears picked up the sound of boot heels coming down the far stairs. Her friend cocked his ear and tilted his head side to side, watching to see what she would do.

 

“Sorry, Bouton, I can’t stay. Take good care, I will see you soon.”  Claire rose and brushed off her hands, she was across the threshold when something brushed past her. Bouton got in front of her and dropped something at her feet, giving a bark of pride.  She bent to retrieve it. A fairly decent hat with which to cover her hair. She smiled at him, feeling warm all over.

 

“Thank you, _mes amis_ , I couldn’t have asked for a better old chum to run into today,” she told him as she carefully inspected the cloth, and, finding nothing chancy or moving on it, fixed it securely to her head and caught her reflection as she passed by a window. She sighed in relief, seeing how well that one small touch helped her blend in better.

 

Claire kept walking past the hospital, trying to figure out whether she could use any of the currency quietly clinking in the deep pocket of her skirt. Better not risk it, she decided, taking herself to task for not paying any attention to the coin when Jamie handed it to her. She had no idea if the year was customarily stamped on the money or not and couldn’t very stop and inspect it in public. Besides, she’d already spent a good deal of it purchasing supplies and sending them to the ship before setting out to L’Hôpital. Claire was always conscious of the fact that a solitary woman travelling unescorted in such times would naturally attract attention. She couldn’t pretend to be shopping, not without coin to spend, there were no lending libraries that admitted women patrons….. _Look busy!_ she reminded herself. _Right, but how_?

 

Claire didn’t want to head in the direction of Jared’s home. It was miles away, but she’d inevitably cross to the little district where the apothecary was situated and she might give in to the temptation to visit Master Raymond. He was the one person in Paris, aside from Bouton, who might not be shocked to see her -- and her graying hair and the crows feet wrinkling her eyes.  Yet, she was hesitant, remembering his sleight of hand in the star chamber. Was he really her friend? She wasn’t sure and that lack of trust weighed heavily in her mind. Instead, she turned south and focused on letting her thoughts roam freely, almost forcing herself to think about not thinking about the Paris of her youth.

 

Awareness settled over her as her feet struck manicured grass and her head came up. She was in the park near Jared’s warehouse. She had only strolled along its delightful paths a few times, once with Louise and Mary and a couple of times with Murtagh. Yes, over to the right were the huge blooming shrubs he had delighted in showing her. Claire made her way over toward the riot of pinks and yellows she saw in the distance, nodding and bobbing the occasional murmured greeting as she went. If her out of style clothing was noticed, no one stared nor said a word.  

 

She came to a small bench Murtagh showed her all those years ago tucked under the swaying branches of a willow tree and sat down in relief. Her boots were comfortable but she’d walked a great distance.  She was thirsty but put that out of her mind, having no way to remedy the need. She closed her eyes and breathed the crisp, clean garden air. The sound of nature surrounded her and peace descended.

 

Claire must have drifted off for the next she knew the quiet had been broken by the zing of rapiers clashing and the echoing grunts of effort.  Two men engaged in some mock battle. In Brianna’s time they’d called it the sport of fencing, but here, in this time, it was practical training. She couldn’t parse out the words themselves but instantly caught the rhythm of the speech. Gaelic, she was sure of it. Claire shot to her feet in blind panic looking around wildly and realized suddenly that the way the branches fell sheltered her completely from the direction of the swordplay.

 

She couldn't help moving to the edge of the shelter of protection and peeking between the curtain of swaying branches and leaves. An enormous sigh of longing escaped her lips as she caught sight the back of Jamie’s broad back, red hair glinting in the sunlight as he thrust downward. His broadsword clashing with an almighty clang as it struck the one Murtagh held firm using both his hands. Murtagh pulled both arms upwards, causing Jamie to jump back. A good thing too, or his head would  now be laying on the grass beside his feet.

 

“Fight it that's it, focus...Concentrate, lad, no... hold on!” Murtagh  encouraged. Their arms were rigid, weapons braced against one another in what looked clear to be a stalemate but Jamie’s arms were shaking badly. Her eyes stayed on his left hand, wrapped in the special compression brace she had fashioned together and which Jamie had faithfully worn everyday since they had left the Abbey.

 

“Christ, man, I canna do it,” Jamie responded as  sweat broke out along his forehead. Claire watched as his knees buckled and he fought to remain engaged in the fight.

 

“Ye ken how to get out of this, lad, so do it,” Murtagh reminded him. Jamie gave a mighty heave and twisted his body forcing the steel to disengage and readjusting his stance.  The motions of thrust and parry went on for a few minutes more, but Jamie's body remained with its back turned to her.

 

Suddenly the two men laughed, patted one another on the back and Jamie threw down his weapon, reaching for a bottle of ale resting in the grass at his feet.  She watched, quite startled, as Murtagh shouted then appeared to take a run at the crowd of onlookers that had stopped to gawk at their games. Claire ducked back into the shadows, fearing detection. She didn’t dare move and kept her eyes glued on Murtagh, willing him to stay away from her hiding spot. She held her breath as she watched him retreat back to the hillside to rejoin Jamie. As Murtagh knelt down, Claire caught her first direct view of Jamie’s face and gasped, the sound echoing loudly in the cocoon of her shelter.

 

He looked good-- _Jesus-H.-Make-Mine-A-Double-Christ!_ \--better than good. He thrummed with the vitality and self-confidence of a man in his prime. His eyes had lost that haunted aspect that had marked their time in the Abbey and sparkled with amusement at something Murtagh said. His body was sound. She noted that his arm was still tucked up tight to his chest, the fingers splayed and unbending, but that was the only outward sign of his ordeal. Then he smiled and she forgot how to breathe.

 

Over the years, Claire had forgotten that for all that Paris had been rife with sorrow it had also been the place of Jamie’s rebirth, his healing and in many ways the place of his making.  Observing him now, she could see what she’d not noticed, _then._

 

Gone was that impulsive, young man she’d wed. The one who cheerfully told her he hadn’t much to offer a wife, but promised to keep her fed.  As if the only barometer for universal happiness --marital or otherwise-- was a full stomach. Given his age and lack of experience with courtship, he’d  likely thought that to be true.

 

In his place now stood a man who had walked through the very heart of darkness and survived. It had been touch and go and it had taken months and, Claire realized now, it had taken this city-- and a chance to test himself by swimming in unfamiliar -- if not shark infested-- waters that had become his proving ground. Jamie relearned the way of himself and that had allowed them to forge a deeper connection, one that had stayed in tact all these years.

 

The phrase “....egghead and lard bucket....” carried on the breeze followed by a “curiously large head….” and then she heard the sound of his laugh and she caught a look at his face as his head turned with a smile as bright as the sun.

 

Tears sprung from her eyes and she pressed her fingers tight against her lips to keep from crying out. _Christ, I hope he knew how much I loved him,  that in my restlessness and grief I hope I told him that much, at least._ Quite unable to look at Jamie without continuing to fall apart, Claire turned her gaze instead to his companion. He was, per usual, scowling as he kept up a grumbling commentary regarding the olfactory delights of France.

 

Claire wanted to give him a hug and never let him go. _Thank you, thank you, thank you! For being his godfather, for always taking care of him. God, may he be safe, wherever he may be._ She prayed. She hoped they would find him one day, that she’d be able to tell him herself how dear he was to them.

 

As if Jamie had heard her thoughts, he said, “did I ever thank ye, Murtagh?” Jamie was looking out over the long expanse of high society on parade in the park and not at Murtagh.

 

“What for?” Murtagh squirmed uncomfortably. Jamie made a scoffing sound. _What, indeed._

 

“For my life? for Claire’s? For our child’s?” Jamie said softly, looking at Murtagh now with an expression of unabashed gratitude. “Willie-- afore we left the Abbey-- said Dougal  didn't want them to go to Wentworth but ye convinced the rest to join ye.”

 

Murtagh scoffed.  “Twasna me, yer lady, she did all that,” he said pausing a moment. “Do ye ken we spent weeks searching for ye?”

 

“What?” Jamie’s eyes widened in astonishment.

 

“Och, aye, up and doon the coast. I danced,” Murtagh gave him a shaggy browed wiggle when Jamie laughed, “Aye, that’s about what it was like, But Claire, ye should ha’ seen her, man. We tried everything we could ta talk to as many as we could hoping word would spread and ye’d pick up our trail as yer had gone cold about four days after Ian came limping back to Lallybroch. She told fortunes and did the doctoring and when that didna work she wrote songs and joined me on the stage.”

 

“My Sassenach?” Jamie’s eyes had gone huge. Claire bit the inside of her lip it was difficult for her to imagine it, too, and she’d been there!

 

“Och, aye, a bonnie-wee-lark is yer woman and stubborn as the day is long, forebye. When we discovered a band of Roma had stolen her song and was driving our crowds away by using it, there was a stramash the likes of which I’ve never seen. When Dougal was inclined no’ to be generous, she did the same to him and it was she that got the lads to agree wi’ that mad scheme.”  What Murtagh hadn’t said was that the mad scheme in question, using the coos as a diversion had been his clever idea, but somehow Jamie knew that.

 

Jamie placed his hand on Murtagh’s shoulder, “As I said, I owe ye much, _goistidh_.”

 

“Jamie, ye are as a son to me. I dinna say it often but ye ken my heart.” Murtagh said so quietly Claire had to hold her breath to catch the words. “How are ye doing? Tell me the truth.” Murtagh’s steady gaze stayed on Jamie’s face. For the first time, Jamie looked uncomfortable in his own skin.

 

“During the day, I’m fine, dinna think of….it, hardly at all,” Jamie told him. “Most nights I’m alright as well. I’m no’ overly fond of cavortin’ with the prince, that poppinjay's bannocks arena quite baked all the way through, if ye ask me and spending time wi’ him is tedious, but sometimes its...easier to be out wi’ him than home.” Jamie sat heavily on his bum and leaned a shoulder into Murtagh’s.

 

Claire thought about leaving. This was getting far too personal and her throat felt like she’d swallowed broken shards of misery. “She still looks at me as she did before, makes me feel like I hung the moon for her alone and I...canna say what it does to my soul to see her shape change day by day wi’ the bairn. God, she deserves so much more than I can give her. It’s still mixed up for me, Claire and Randall and it’s no’ her fault, but mine. I canna get my mind clear. Yet whenever she is near I ache to…….” The rest of what he said was lost on the wind, his face had turned away from Claire and Murtagh. She saw Murtagh bend his head and could catch a murmuring response but nothing distinctive.  

 

“Do you think she kens?” Jamie’s face was turned back in her direction and Claire felt lightheaded as she focused on the tender expression in his eyes.

 

 _I do, Jamie. Never doubt that._ Claire thought as her body started to fly. She sighed in relief and didn’t fight it.

 

When she came to, she felt the chill in the crisp November air at once and knew she’d returned to the Cemetery of the Angels.  She took a few breaths waiting for the dizziness to clear then slowly got to her feet. With enormous relief she spotted her basket leaning against a small stone.  She reached inside and pulled the precious bundle of tulips from the bottom of the sack. Still fresh, telling her that not too much time had passed.

 

Claire reoriented herself and walked toward Faith’s stone.  She caught a wink of color that defined itself as she moved closer. Her heart tightened like a vice in her chest. A posy of violets, their beautiful deep purple vivid against that cold gray stone, set precisely between the words Faith and Fraser.

 

 _But I am not the man you knew these twenty years past._ His words to her upon their reunion echoed in her mind. _No_ , she thought, _you are so much more._ And with a shaky hand, Claire lay her tulips on top of his, their offerings forming a cross.   

 

Jamie looked up from the scratching of his quill with quiet satisfaction, always pleased when he could get a sentence to go clear across the page neatly, as Claire bustled through the door to their room. “Ach, there ye are, Sassenach, I was just wondering how ye faired wi’ the----” Jamie let out an _eep_! of surprise as her body slammed into his, locking him in a full body kiss.

 

His lips asked questions she wouldn’t answer and he decided to curb his curiosity. She was in a terrible rush to get his shirt off and when she started unlacing his breeks, he responded on an elemental level to the raw desperation of her desire, helping her get her own shirt and then her stays off in short order.

 

He attempted to stand, to lay her out on the bed and love her properly, but she placed her hands on his shoulders and held him rooted to the chair with a strangled sound that tried for English but emerged as feral.  

 

“What is it, love?” Jamie crooned softly, “Tell me, my own.” He grabbed her hair in a ponytail and yanked it back hard, forcing her to look him in the eye, at last. He stared at her, refusing to look away or let her do so, either.

 

Her lips were sunkissed and swollen. She looked like she’d been crying. He bent his mouth and flicked his tongue over the valley between her breasts, tang and salt, outside the contoured trail of his lips he could see her skin covered in grime, evidence of the kind of day she’d had.

 

He inhaled deeply, thinking how he could maneuver his body lower to further the explorations of his mouth when his brain registered something unexpected. He bent his head again and sniffed, casual at first then picking up more steam, like a pig rooting out a truffle. His nose never failed him. After a minute or so he looked up at her.

 

“Ye care to tell me why ye smell like new cut grass and it’s November?”

 

“I saw you this afternoon.” Claire said by way of an explanation, which he’d noticed provided no answer at all.

 

“And ye didna call out to me?” Jamie’s eyebrows rose trying to figure out where their paths might have intersected on their respective errands.  He wondered if maybe she’d gone to see Faith, too? But if so, why did she not say anything?

 

He knew she’d been uneasy ever since learning of Laoghaire but it had been Ian’s abduction-- while trying to bring back the treasure they needed to be free of her-- that had opened this particular chasm between them. All of the challenges of living _then,_ to say nothing of its dangers, death and disease, floated across her face as she sat beside him trying to soothe him with reassuring words, while he -- useless, helpless man that he was-- sat on that hill staring into the gloam long after Ian’s ship had slipped over the horizon-- still shaking his head in disbelief.  

 

Finally, she adjusted his sling and urged him to action. Before setting sail for France, he offered to take her back to Craigh Na Dun. He had to force the words from his lips and his heart hammered in terror waiting for her response. The fact that his suggestion had not been greeted with the kind of shocked protestation he had prayed to hear but more of a _“Focus on Ian, we’ll talk of this later_ ” came back into his memory now.

 

He should have told her what he had planned that afternoon and asked her to come, too. But when they arose, she’d barely touched their meal, kept fiddling with her basket, pulling out all her wee notations regarding needed supplies for the ship’s surgery. He tried to broach it a couple of times but Claire wouldn’t make eye contact with him and he found he didn’t have the courage to bring it up and risk her upset. If she’d not mentioned it, then he shouldn’t call it to mind, either. They were back to keeping secrets from one another.

 

Jamie could bear anything in this world except being parted from her again, but the moment his fingers traced the faded letters of Faith’s name, he knew he’d made a terrible mistake and wished he’d spoken of it first thing this morning. When he returned to an empty room, her absence nearly drove him mad.  Her instant need of him upon her return was a much needed balm on his anxious heart.

 

Claire gave him a shake of the head and a brave little smile that let him know she hadn’t meant she’d seen him _today_ but something else.

 

“Oh?” He ventured cautiously. He knew what she was and he’d seen it happen a number of times but that was _then_ and it hadn’t happened since she’d been back.

 

“In the _Jardins des plantes_ ,” her gaze was steady but he saw the flicker of deep emotion inside her. It had been over two decades since he’d last been in that park. His mind raced to try and figure out what she needed him to say.  

 

He finally settled on, “Had ye been back in Paris before today?”

 

“No! Claire genuinely seemed horrified at the thought. “I haven’t set foot in France since 1743, and I never intended to do so in my lifetime again. You remember how it works?” She was watching him and when he hesitatingly nodded, she continued, “I can only travel a short distance ...er geographically speaking, that is, and my actions can’t change what has already happened.”

 

“Did ye see yerself, then?” Jamie asked her but he didn’t seem as upset as she would’ve thought. As if reading her mind he added, “God, I’d love to see ye round and fat in yer silk and lace again, Sassenach.”

 

“No, I told you, I saw you….oh, and Murtagh.”  

 

Jamie made an affirmative noise in the back of his throat. “Ye ken, Paris wouldna ha’ been the same wi’ his sunny countenance.”

 

“Oh, stop, Murtagh is a great travel companion!” Claire laughed.

 

“Aye, and no one I’d rather have guarding my back. It was an act of grace, seeing that face, wearing gray whiskers and rags, at Ardsmuir. It felt good to be the one caring for him for once. I hope we can find him again, Sassenach and bring him home.”  

 

“That would be wonderful.”

 

“Tell me what happened today,” he encouraged.

 

“I spent the last twenty years _not_ going to the places we shared.  To find myself in Paris, _then_ ?” Claire shuddered. “To run into myself and to _know_? I might have tried to forewarn but then I would have condemned myself dreading new day fearing what would come instead of savoring every day to come. Knowing the future hasn’t helped us avert disaster so far.”

 

“So ye didna want to run into anyone ye knew and ended up in the park?” Jamie surmised.

 

“Yes, indeed. Imagine my surprise when I realized you were just on the other side of the willow tree that shielded me from your view. You were so young, Jamie.  Full of grace and in great spirits. Murtagh brings out a very playful side of you. I’d forgotten how much fun you had with each other. Then, watching you, I realized how much we had enjoyed being here. All the wonderful things we had found here, too. We were part of history, something so much bigger than ourselves. It was thrilling and full of grand possibilities. I look back on our lives here and can’t believe that was us, at Versailles, dining with the prince, so much beauty and luxury.”

 

At this Jamie snorted, “aye, too bad the two of us are more at home in a tent on the moor than in a mansion wi’ servants.”

 

“That’s true, but I still appreciate everything Jared did for us-- and is _still_ willing to do for us. Being here set me on the path to becoming a doctor and helped by giving you a different kind of purpose.” Jamie nodded and Claire continued, “it was here we found Fergus.” Jamie smiled in memory. “Nothing turned out like we’d hoped in Paris but it _had_ been magical and after today, I can look back on it and remember it that way.”

 

“Swords, was it?” Jamie beamed when he heard her sigh lustily.

 

“Jamie you looked….” Words failed her, she had no other way to tell him but to show him, kissing him passionately with an explosion of soft mewling noises he found deeply gratifying, if only because they echoed the ones she was drawing from his lips.

 

Jamie let himself be diverted for a good long while. Claire hadn’t responded to his physical presence like this since they were in Edinburgh and he was mightily roused by her reaction. Yet, just as she was about to get completely carried away, he pushed her body back and looked searchingly at her.

 

“Claire?” he began, and she looked dazed, her cheeks pink from exertion. “Was it...that is I dinna want to make assumptions about how yer feeling nor imply that ye should feel--” it was his turn for pinkened cheeks now.

 

“Jamie,” Claire held her hand out to him,”just say it, whatever it is. Trust that I will listen with my heart and try and understand.  When things go unsaid….that's when trouble starts for us, I think.”

 

Jamie nodded and started over, “I ken why ye couldna bear to...I dinna blame ye one bit. But I think maybe yer fretting about making that choice-- no’ for yerself or me, but for her sake.” Seeing her stunned expression, Jamie started second guessing himself, but he'd gone this far, he needed to finish. “Will ye maybe find some….comfort in knowing she wasna alone today? I was wi’ her, brought her a wee posy, told her how much we both love and miss her; asked her to watch o’er her little sister for us. If she’s anything like Jenny, she’ll have been doing it all along.”

 

“Oh, Jamie,” Claire bit her bottom lip hard willing herself not to burst into tears. How did he manage to cut her wide open and then cauterize the wound in less than five sentences?  “I saw your violets when I brought her tulips. That’s where was. I awoke in the cemetery, but her grave wasn’t there.”

 

“Christ, Claire.” Jamie’s eyes swam with unshed tears. The second Claire reached her hand to his cheek, they spilled over, across her fingers, leaking down the back of her hand.

 

“I’ve needed to say something to you since Edinburgh, no, it’s not supposed to make you cry harder,” Claire gave him a sobbing hiccup, “You are, and have always been, a wonderful father, Jamie. I never told you that and I should have. I couldn’t think of anything more important than returning to you to make sure you knew it. Thank you, for giving them to me and for keeping our family together.”

 

“Ye thought that wouldna make me cry? Jesus, Claire, what ye do to me,” he said into her ear as he crushed her to him.

 

Sometime later, on the edge of sleep, he whispered, “Yer wrong though, Sassenach.”

 

“Hmmm?” she said in drowsy reply.

 

“Knowing the future did help. A great deal. Kept Jenny and the bairns alive, kept me from being hanged. It’s maybe true for the big things ye canna change time, for its stubborn and fights back. But in hundreds of small ways, it mattered. Hearing ye speak of our adventures worries me some, though. Do ye think ye can be content once we have Ian in hand just living a quiet life wi’ me in a highland croft?” It was said in a flirty tone but Claire heard the anxiety underneath.

 

“Yes, but don’t count the chickens in your kale yard just yet, life may have more surprises in store, General Fraser.”  

  
  



End file.
